Smart, macabre, witty and decadent this book is a darkly sensual read. Dorothy is successful food critic with an appetite for sex and violence. This is her memoir written from prison which recounts the murders of her lovers with unsettling precision. Be warned you may find yourself compelled to sympathise with a psychopath or even taking a distasteful enjoyment in her crimes.
You can read the statistic that the human body holds twenty-five feet of intestines, but until you see it in all its red-white-and-blue glory, you can't envision it. Twenty-five feet is a lot of intestines, and I was awash. The pulsating, ferocious smells of innards pressed and throbbed in my throat. I pushed snaking lines of viscera to the side, winding some around a nearby jigsaw. The guts smelled like raw haggis - no, let me rephrase: the air smelled like atavistic lust and honour and jubilance and ecstasy. It was awesome in the Old Testament sense of the word. It was sublime, in the classic sense of Edmund Burke. It was a sharp, bestial, acrid, and mineral smell, one that wed shit and blood and loins and spit in the most holy of matrimonies. If I'd time, I'd have stripped naked and rolled around in it.